


Did you know I've also got depression?(I don't, I'm lying)

by otaku_van



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, I can't tag what else is new, I don't know, IRL Fic, Suicidal Thoughts, but not really, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otaku_van/pseuds/otaku_van
Summary: He didn’t have depression. He wasn’t suicidal. He was perfectly fine, mentally and physically.(Sometimes, he wished he wasn't. He wished he had depression. He wished he were suicidal. He wished he could blame his thoughts on anyone, anything but himself. He desperately wished that he could ask for help, that he weren’t masquerading, that he wasn't trying to garner pity from himself)a vent fictitle is a variation from 'I'm in Love with an E-girl' by Wilbur Soot
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 118





	Did you know I've also got depression?(I don't, I'm lying)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I was reading fanfic and out of nowhere started crying and now we have this unedited thing. This is my first ever published vent fic, and about a real person even, so please let me know if I've crossed any lines or anything. This fic is definitely not insinuating anything about his real self, it is merely self-projection. Please let me know if he is uncomfortable with these kind of fics and I will delete this immediately, and please never send a fanfic to any CC. Have a nice day after reading this long note if you did.

Absolutely nothing special was going on when it happened.

He was just mindlessly scrolling through Twitter, snickering at a few of his friends’ tweets and posting a few replies here and there. There was simply no reason, no catalyst, but it happened.

His eyes started to water and a few tears built up. Not surprising, it was fast approaching midnight and he had just spent an hour focused on editing his videos, and had a three hour stream before that. His eyes were definitely tired, no doubt about that.

His breath hitched once. Twice. His body started to shiver and he collapsed on his bed, curled up under his blanket. The cold was still creeping on, but he was suddenly too tired to get up and put on a hoodie.

He stared back at his phone, the text and images blurred from the tears. Why was he even crying? He let them fall, horizontally across his face due to his position, and his mind started to spiral.

His breaths were coming out more and more unsteadily, but at the same time he could breathe perfectly well and he wondered what was happening. He knew this wasn’t hyperventilation. He didn’t have panic or anxiety attacks, all those nights he wondered whether he had depression he knew he was lying. Pretending to garner pity from no one but himself.

He suddenly remembered the line from Wilbur’s song, ‘Did you know I’ve also got depression? Self-diagnosed thought I should mention’. The first time he heard it, he had a small sliver of hope, of sorts. That maybe he does indeed have depression. That his thoughts were not of pretense but of a mental illness. But then he thought of his brother figure.

Wilbur, Wilbs, Wilby, the man he saw as his older brother. (He wondered, when the room was dark and the neighborhood was silent, while his thoughts were the former but never the latter, whether the man thought the same of him. Or whether that was just a funny bit the other did without much thought.) Tommy’s listened to his _Your City Gave Me Asthma_ album, he’s heard from Wilbur himself about the years before when he was in a bad place mentally. When he thought he had depression but was too afraid to ask someone for help.

Tommy knew how Wilbur had picked himself back up, staggered forward and was able to find himself. He also knew if he were to ask Wilbur for help, even if it were just a Discord message the other would immediately call to chat. He knew that Wilbur cared about him. (But what if he didn’t?)

Tommy’s just a pretender. If Wilbur found out, would he be disappointed?

Tommy knew that he had friends. Online or in real life, they were all friends that were willing to help him. He had great parents who gave him their unconditional support. Even some of his teachers understood the exhaustion one garners when they had to balance streaming and school, and sometimes turned a blind eye when he dozed off in class. He knew that none of them hated him.

But that didn’t necessarily mean they cared about him.

There were often times when he wondered what would happen if he just… left ~~died~~. They would probably feel shocked at first, then sad and loss but would that even last? Despite the massive Twitch following he had for his age, he couldn’t help but feel like he was easily forgettable. How he was never the first choice for anything, how he could be easily replaced.

He choked out a laugh. His tears have stopped trailing down his face, his breaths were coming out more evenly. He wiped off the snot that had begun to disgustingly drip past his lips and stumbled to the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked completely fine. His eyes didn’t even have the slightest hint of redness, his face wasn’t pale, and the tear tracks had vanished without a trace. Even more evidence to show he was pretending.

He slowly brushed his teeth and turned to stare out of the window. Starting from a long, long time ago, he’s stared out of the same window and wondered if he jumped, whether he would die or not. It was the 19th floor, he should most definitely die from the fall, but what if he didn’t? What if he survived and everyone found out, and began to treat him as if he truly had depression, as if he truly was suicidal, when in reality he didn’t?

He didn’t have depression. He wasn’t suicidal. Sure, every time he was on a high level even if it was only the second story of a bus, he would wonder whether the fall would be enough to kill him. Sure, he’s contemplated repeatedly what was the easiest way to commit suicide, which would be the most painless, and which would be the quickest. Sure, he had zero plans for the faraway future since he was almost absolutely certain that he would be dead. But that didn’t mean anything, it only meant that he was good at lying to himself.

(Sometimes, he wished he had depression. He wished he were suicidal. He wished he could blame his thoughts on anyone, anything but himself. He desperately wished that he could ask for help, that he weren’t masquerading.

Sometimes, he wished that he’s experienced something traumatic. He’s read about abuse, about bullying, about unsupportive parents. Sometimes, he wished that happened to him, just so he could explain why he was like this. So many people were experiencing real issues, were living difficult lives, were truly depressed and here he is telling himself that he’s one of them.)

He looked at his own reflection and whispered. “I hate you. You disgust me.” Deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. That he wouldn’t be able to stop, that he would always look out the window and pretend he wanted to die, but never actually do it. That he would shiver under the bed covers because he was cold, so cold, and fantasize about setting himself aflame but would definitely shy away the first instance the flames licked his body, ~~what a COWARD.~~ He’s cursed to pretend forever, to lie and say that he’s fine (but he’s not lying, he is fine, he’s only pretending, pretending, pretending).

He limped back to his room, lying on his bed and staring up into the darkness. He wondered if the tears would come again, whether he would cry himself to sleep tonight. They don’t come, they never do. He popped his earbuds in and listened to the strumming of the guitar as the first few bars of _Jubilee Line_ plays. He slowly drifts off to sleep, Wilbur’s familiar voice retreating to the back of his mind.

Wouldn’t it be nice and easy to just jump in front of the incoming train?

**Author's Note:**

> He doesn't live in an apartment building that's on the 19th floor, but let's pretend he does.
> 
> I've got to say, writing vent fics do help, it's a nice coping mechanism if I do say so myself. It's kind of like expressing yourself through music. Not that I know anything about that though.
> 
> As I've said in the notes in the beginning, this short fic is barely edited past the point of checking grammatical mistakes through the Microsoft Word's detection. I'm not gonna bother editing it either, so let it be with the eight times the word 'pretend' was used.
> 
> I'll probably be either too afraid or I don't want to think of a reply that isn't 'thanks', but if you so generously comment I probably won't reply anytime soon. Nonetheless, don't let that stop you.
> 
> Don't be afraid to ask for help. I'm working on that too but try to take my advice when I myself can't.


End file.
